Fiction

I laugh at the jokes, wondering if I'd cry if I didn't. Time is marked by wounds on my skin and in my mind; patched up with spare bandages from an old army kit, a relic of a forgotten war. The scene around me continues, plays before my eyes; it's like watching TV really, only here the fourth wall doesn't exist, the shouts hurt, I can taste the tears and touch other's faces - surreal, so much so that it can only be true. Hiding and escaping, retreating further away, trying to shield myself from reality intruding into my fiction (or is it the other way around?)

You Bring Out the Korean Adoptee in Me

Wrote this after Sandra Cisnero’s "You Bring Out the Mexican in Me".  I've seen other versions, including one by Bao Phi- "You Bring Out the Vietnamese in Me."  I wanted to write one for us too. xoxo
YOU BRING OUT THE KOREAN ADOPTEE IN ME

You bring out the Korean Adoptee in me.
The snowdrift eyelids.
The unripe peach arms.
The knee jerk kisses I take and save for rainy days.
You know.

You bring out the red button heart in me.
The flashcard Korean nouns in me.
The message in a bottle but the bottle broke.
The fancy chopsticks.

The five year old Asian bob with perfect curled bangs in me.
All of my pink dresses, every laced hem, every inch of frill
every warm white tight in me. You bring out
the tacky bling
in my iris.

You bring out the frozen stir fry vegetables and soy sauce in me.
The four inch, no,
two inch heels so I still look good and you still look tall in me.
The fourth Killian and sloppy secrets in me.
The Dance Dance Revolution in me.

You,
You bring out the airplane in me.
The flame start turbine jet stream flight in me.
The Pacific, in tablespoons, in me.
The quake of migration,
the tsunami of children.

Our mothers’ treasure chest memories
sunken to the bottom of their throats.
The family tree with ghost branches.

The hum
of trains pumping below the pavement skin,
the hum
of one woman singing arirang into the dusk room of
twenty one babies not her own,
lives paused on lullabyes.

I want to sing this song for you,
roll my Korean Adoptee tongue into
quarter notes on your lips.

I want to make you failed Asian recipes and
steamed rice outta my twenty pound bag I will
never finish.

I want to tie donated hanboks loose
on our long lost bodies, take photos
of how Korean we are some days.

The Korean Adoptee in me, I am
always looking
for someone to save me.

You,
broken history you,
bulgogi smile you,
half cigarette and sunglasses
on the flat roof of a Seoul building you,
Come here,
let me un-Levi, un-American Eagle you,
let me play your fingertips like a grand piano and
spread our palms out like last flimsy pieces of a
two hundred thousand piece
puzzle

You got it.

Breaths upon my chest,
your midnight hair in my full moon hands,

and not the language we lost
or the language we were given
has a word for this,
this tear streaked love,
this yinyang heartbeat
beneath your cheek

1984

And now, for something completely different ...

The Orwellian year of lore
Was musically-packed with action galore
Guys got "Footloose" + busted ghosts
The poem below is Dru's Thursday's post
This year, Lionel Richie said "Hello" to the top of the charts
And Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" warmed people's hearts
While Chaka Khan stated I Feel for You
REO Speedwagon couldn't fight their feelings for their boos
The Pointer Sisters jumped for love
A Gaye man was shot by his father + went to heaven above
Sheila E. lived "The Glamorous Life"
And Janet Jackson [temporarily] became James DeBarge's wife
Queen wanted to break free
While George Michael whispered carelessly
Wham! wanted "Freedom" and to be woken up before they went
Who knew new Menudo heartthrob Ricky Martin would be bent?
Suddenly, Billy Ocean wasn't looking for love on the run
And Cyndi Lauper screamed: "Girls Just Want to Have Fun"
Girls like Madonna, who said she was Like a Virgin
Or Tina Turner, a Private Dancer with an urgin'
Because "What's Love Got to Do with It"?
Smooth Operator haters Sade asked the same on their first hit
The Revolution said that when doves cry
For Apollonia Kotero, Prince would die
Purple Rain caused quite the chart-topping scene
Interrupting the U.S.A. reign of Bruce Springsteen
Some foreigners wanted to know what love was
And Alphaville wanted to be "Forever Young" just because
1984 was a year of the good + the whack
With great music to throw you back.

"A (very) Loose Reflection on SB1070 by an Arizona Poet" or "Jan Brewer Doesn't Care About Your Faggy Poem"

Gonna write a story about a poet that mattered--

poems were more than performance pieces

playing for that pussy--

wrote real protests, rhyming prose

and politicians listened,

traded out Andrew Jacksons for poet-influenced decisions

Gonna write a story about a poem that made a difference--

line breaks broke police lines better than bottles could have

and a rhyme scheme at play with no ulterior motive

like “I just came to read my poem

with no rising inflections, no silly affectations,

just feeling”

Gonna write a story about getting lost in my stories--

wrapped up in pages,

curled up cover to cover

and sweet sugar plum dreams

that poems are more than catharsis

for under-rep’ed frustration,

fragments of community

or a voice for the voiceless.

this is for...

* inspired in part by christy's recent poem "You Bring Out the Korean Adoptee in Me"



this is for
the
west palm beach
chlorine green-bleached
blonde
peeling
tan
that
i could only
see

never

be


this is for
the
corrie aubrey alli katie stephanie dana brooke karen becca becky
cheerleading
homecoming queens
- and her court
that i could only vote for

never

be


this is for
the
other karen
other clara
other roland
- chinese family parents look like them
that i could only wonder at

never

be


this is for
the lake worth highschool varsity
this is how you do defense
all african american
plus one white girl
and then me
basketball team
whose bench i could only
warm

never

be


this is for
the mrs prill
p.e. and french language teacher
who mistook me for the
karen chin and clara li in class
but never saw my hand when she called my name
"kim thompson"...
whose face was always a reminder that i could just
shout out "hey thats me"
but

never

be


this is for
the tka we love jesus
go to church 3 times a week
plus sunday school
plus wednesday chapels followed by prayer meetings
plus daily bible classes and devotions
plus memorize the old king james kind
dont drink or smoke
dont have sex before youre married
and its "adam and eve" not "adam and steve"
"if god said why should i let you into my heaven"
evangelism exploded
kind of christian that i tried on for so long
but just could

never

be


this is for
the baltic, alpine, scandanavian, venezuelan, occasional british
beauties
that i could only walk with
talk with

but

never

be


this is for
the tatt'd queer-do's
artists
best friends ive ever known from the p-horn "represent"
shout out to "the gayborhooders"
mama mentors laurie carlos'

that never made me think of all the ways

that

i

could

never

be

only helped me see...


turned this poem to


who its really for


all the ones lost like me at the beginning
raised between two three maybe four or five worlds

all the ones who are han born... han kang / river han separated...
umma seeking
umma found
umma bound
umma umma which one of yous my umma
and what am i s'posed to do about my western white mom who
- praises jesus for
- is threatened by
- is scared of
- wants to meet
- wants to thank
- thinks 3rd world
- thinks not mine
the woman i always called "my real mom" now "umma"

how this poem is really for

all the ones 1st - 3rd who sometimes spend too much time in house fighting
forgetting we are bound by K-100 numbers
forgetting that which was created of the war
is not the same as that which was created of the greed and need
and social failings of our motherland
forgetting that
we are white assimilated
sometimes korean forgotten
forgetting that
anyways we're just people
trying

how this poem is really for
all the ones whose roots feel washed away
by our sea of korea not japan
loss of knowing

how this poem is really for

not all the things and ones that we could never be

but all the things

we


are.


- kim thompson. wed 19 may 11.39 seoul, korea

Ain't It Grand

Halfway between population and scenery,

too flimsily constructed to fit in with the bricks,

not constructed enough to look like he belongs there--

He’s still got patience for their pretense--

those overgrown kids in overgrown, super-sized toys--

adult-sized babies trying to hide

that they were never cute behind bangs and mismatched clothing

like a diversion from the vapid steam that rises off them--

or maybe that’s because they didn’t shower today

for fear of washing off their inspiration.

Either way, they don’t have any spare change for him

because they’re in art school and all their extra cash

goes to PBR and Parliaments.

If a building disappeared during the coldest winter months,

maybe we’d all wonder, read about it in the paper

but no one seems to mind his absence--

no one seems to mind having that extra few dollars in quarters

smoldering in the ash tray;

that change adds ballast when you’re driving on ice.

Groundhogs can suck it--

I know it’s Spring when he’s out there again,

quietly scratching his history into the sidewalk

with thrift store shoes

bought by necessity, not choice.

Whether you give him money or not,

he’s the only real smile,

the only real person inhabiting Grand Avenue

and it’s his weathered cardboard sign,

not some grandiose bronze statue

that spells out so concisely

“there is still beauty here.”

garden

hello/how are u
stale words to choke on
endemic ennui entrenched in every esoteric example
tasteless/formless/shapeless/colorless
futile invigoration attempts grave-digging
plant the sullied seeds in tainted soil
where the planters grow green with envy
jealous of the ungrateful dead
rotting on the vine
fruitless/lifeless/worthless/powerless
strangle the incessant agony
weedlike
a pestilence
channel it here around my wrist
my charmbracelet of voodoo dolls
my anger chained and noisy
blood-constricting
power-lessening
sustenance never takes root in my body
so i feed off it all
i awake to suck the damaged dew from my weakened heart
breakfast time/lunch time/dinner time/dying time
i sleep to sup off the tainted thoughts from my weakened mind
why can't i erase my mind?
images in permanent marker
scrawled behind my eyelids
so that i'm always blinded to see
broken expectations
shattered afterthoughts
fractured dreams
paths pathetically pathologizing my pathos
dandelion beauty/dandelion damage/dandelion infestation/dandelion bouquets
infectious, my precious
how are the fruitless fruits spread?
don't let it go to ur head
blow away to a different garden
where ur appreciated and wanted
blink once, twice, three times
u remain like a bad hangover
drunk with ur egotism, narcissist
uproot/get the boot/remaining is moot/scoot
get away from me
i can't stand u
diligent asp/diligent ass
diligent slum/diligent scum
rot on the viral vine
where u deserve to grow stale
goodbye/good luck to u

whale standing in the water

Naahaan Dakhl’aweidi,
whale standing in the water,
bravery on freedom,
heart on fin,
a harpoon pen and
an eye for an eye better
to see you with.

Straight hair so long it could make
a settler’s shotgun look crooked,
burnt leather bible ashes braided down his back

hands hazeled by heartbeats he inherited,
carried close in an open canvas bag.

He has drawn his people,
their calm curves and their whipped tails,
carvings sailed into ink

and he looks fresh
all 2010 “real Indian”
says he’s
gonna hustle the tourists for some prints.

I told him to bring his drum, too,
that they’d pay hot white money for a song.

Between beats,
Naahaan skims the blood soaked ocean,
chin up against the rising tide,
with flood gated eyes,

a sage smoked star shooting
as he tells me,

I don’t think
they can afford a song.

Morning

My poem doesn't rhyme; doesn't fit, just flows

Words flooded with style, filled with life.

Sitting on the porch; looking out to passersby and faces, rushed and late for work. I'm drinking thoughts, hot and sweetened with too much sugar - If i'd just could savour it, a single moment in time, just one - When a women brushed my leg, walking past... She smiles, and apologizes with a word. She smiles and then, tastes my eyes.

on hippos and a crab and the evolution of the word made flesh

i write her -

"하마

하마 동생...
넹 넹 넹???

소 주 나는 원해
네꺼 꽃게"

or romanized

"hama

hama dongsaeng
naeng naeng naeng

soju na nun whun hae
naeguh goke kae"

(hippopotamus little sister
yes/hello yes/goodbye yes/hello/goodbye???
i want soju
my little crab)

stringing words together like when i was 6
only that
when i was 6 i was less confined by lack of language
than i am now at 36
or is it 34
lately its just easier to stick to the year when asked

so at 6 i could say more than i can now the years aged after birth
in 1975

little sister hippo
my crab

i began at six with birds
or was i 8?

so i began in 1981 moved by dreams and birds
and now in twenty-ten reduced to rhyming words of
younger hippos and short slang salutations
i dream of words for one day
when i can look back
as i now do at 6 or 8 or the early 80's
and say how

"once upon a time
back in twenty ten when i was 34 or 36
i began my life as poet/시인 here
with silly rhymes that made us laugh

and it was in that time that neruda did arrive
and langston's dreams i lived"

i begin again - korean born, american raised, european shaped, as i did at 6 or 8 or sometime in the early 80s only now with

korean western rediscovered

one day my "little sister hippo"
when we are future eating crab and drinking soju that i want
i will tell you all the words in ways you feel
all the ones that i was saving
back in
twenty ten

- kim thompson. seoul, korea - thursday 13 may 2010 at 16.27

Into endlessness

I drop, into endlessness
there is no air left, no ground to catch me brokenhearted
there is only the fall
further
down

I hoped one day I could take my heart with me, give it what it needs
perhaps a parasol decorated cocktail, on a beach half a world away. Tequila shots, 2 dollars each, and skinny dipping at night; a taste of salt water, drown my head and cure my heart...

Poem for L.

Some stars were bright but burned out early

while others only looked bright

when the night was at its darkest.

Your star was the one that stuck around

when it was so dark I could barely even see you

smiling next to me

so maybe the greatest thing I can do

is to spend bright days and dark nights,

every second I’m breathing,

trying to make you smile

so your star shines just a little brighter.

new girl

there’s a new baby girl at daycare.

bertha tells me that
my son will only sleep
when she sleeps
and today
that was not very much.

at dinner
he is someone else’s boy -
hand slapped in sweet potato,
face tear laced,
wailing,
and i can’t tell
if he’s tired
or in love

beautiful

the world is all a-swirl
"ugly's" been replaced by
"beautiful"

and i stand
in the middle midst
hands invisible

inside the sentence chamber
words are all a flutter
cradling
not wings
but rather
- unborn poems

inside the seething of the hole
inside the writhing of the seething gaping whole
inside the twisting turning churning of the all increasing
sanities
and well earned
vanities

i stand
alone and full
one of one too many
still not knowing what to make of
all this

swirling whirling whispering seething writhing twisting turning churning burning yearning wriggling while-in' fold up in upon
collapsing

beauty


- kim thompson thursday 6 may 21:29 seoul, korea